


Broken Records

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the second rejection, Alpha centuri, Angst, Before the holy water, Both the music and the people, Crowley is a fan of Queen, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Song Lyrics, The trick is to play the music louder than your thoughts, Until it doesn't work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: After Aziraphale turns him down a second time, Crowley is having a hard time not even thinking about him. He tries distracting himself with his favorite band's music, and sorts through which albums he wants to bring with him to Alpha Centuri. Unfortunately, too many songs remind him of what he's leaving behind.





	Broken Records

**Author's Note:**

> Part Good Omens fanfic, part Queen fanfic. I apologize in advance for the overabundance of song lyrics. Also for all the emotions. But hey, we know it ends well, right?

Crowley gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands stung. That was part of the point. Something to distract him, and to keep his hands from shaking too much. It hurt to breathe, so he didn’t. Just stared through the windshield as the Bentley rocketed through London at nearly a hundred miles an hour. In front of him, drivers found themselves suddenly swerving off the road and onto the sidewalk, damaging property and terrifying pedestrians. It wasn’t as if any of that mattered. It would all be gone in a few hours, and nobody would actually be hurt.

Stupid, _stupid_ angel. How could Aziraphale be so naïve? The almighty had had six thousand years to watch the mortals down here in their ingenious little dance and rethink all the fire and destruction she had planned for them. How could one principality come up with a more convincing argument for their survival than all of human history? And that was assuming that the almighty could by reasoned with at all—_God’s plans are ineffable, Crowley—_and that she would grant Aziraphale an audience in the first place. She hadn’t spoken to anyone of their ranks for millennia without filtering her words through that blasted bureaucracy she hid behind—

—_Six thousand years_ he had known the angel, six bloody thousand years—_How long have we been friends?_—and he had the nerve, the audacity, to think he could lie straight to Crowley’s face. _We’re not friends. I don’t even like you!_ Crowley gritted his teeth so hard that they would have shattered if he’d been human. _I’m not blind, angel. I see the way you look at me. I know it isn’t just me._

The Bentley squealed into the driveway and jerked to a stop, leaving behind streaks of steaming black rubber. Crowley unclamped his hands from the steering wheel to see that his fingers had left behind dents. “No, no, no, no…” He rubbed the deformed wheel as if he could rub out the damage. Not the Bentley, not his precious car. That was all he had left now.

_Crowley, you’re being ridiculous._ Really, he was the one being ridiculous? He wasn’t the one convinced he could avert a war that had been in the works for six thousand years with a few well-placed complaints. What would Aziraphale even say? “Yes, hello God, excuse me but have you considered _not_ destroying Earth? It’s quite nice down there, actually.” Crowley got out of the car, slammed the door, and ran up the steps to his flat. If Aziraphale wanted to lie to Crowley and himself, that was his own problem. Crowley would be so much better off. He’d have a whole universe of stars all to himself. The vast, cold, empty expanse of space. All to himself.

His hands were shaking again, thanks to how hard he had gripped the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, gave up, and miracled the door open instead. Once inside, he shut the door, locked all three locks, and welded it shut for good measure. Not that that would stop the forces of hell once they caught up to him. Which could happen any minute now. He had wasted too much valuable time crawling back to Aziraphale again like the pathetic snake he was, even when he knew it was already too late.

_There is no our side, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over._

Crowley clenched his fists in the hope that that would steady them. He had apologized and everything. That was how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it? Maybe he hadn’t done it quite right. He didn’t have much previous experience, and the whole thing had been so rushed that he couldn’t even remember what he’d said. If he’d had time, maybe he could have thought about it more, planned out what he was going to say—But, no, that wasn’t the problem. _I forgive you._ The angel had called his bluff. Forgiveness wasn’t what he had come for.

“No point dwelling on it,” he growled to himself. Hastur and Ligur would be here any moment, and he needed to be ready when they did. He half-ran, half-stumbled towards the painting that hid his safe, pushed it out of the way, struggled with the combination lock for a few minutes—It had been decades since he had locked it, but the date he’d used for the combination was still fresh in his memory—

The safe swung open. There sat the thermos, that stupid little blue tartan thermos, the one Aziraphale had given him against his better judgement just to keep Crowley out of danger, just before—

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Crowley’s stomach felt like it was trying to consume himself. Why had he said it like that? _We could go off together._ So stupid, so clumsy. It wasn’t supposed to go that way. _We could go off together_, and a little voice in his head had said _too fast, too fast,_ but he had no more time to give Aziraphale, and he had hoped that six thousand years would have been enough, and for the briefest of moments it had seemed like it was—_Go off…together?_—But it was too much, far too much, somehow, even after all this time, and now this world was ending and Crowley’s was too—

He slammed the door of the safe and drew a ragged breath, forgetting how much breathing hurt. The last thing he should be doing in this state was handling an open container of holy water. A distraction. That was what he needed. He stomped down the hall and tore open a closet. His eyes lit on the cardboard box where he kept his old records. Music. Yes. He carried the box into the living room, and set it on the table with a thud.

Most of his music collection had already been updated to CDs, or at least cassettes, but there were some albums he just couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. Looking through the old, worn covers was already calming his nerves. He had gotten most of these the same year they’d been released. The Doors, The Rolling Stones, The Velvet Underground—

_What’s a velvet underground?_

_You wouldn’t like it._

_Ah. Bebop._

Idiot angel. His stomach flipped. He tossed that one into a corner across the room where he couldn’t see it and turned back to the box. Queen. Perfect. He pulled out all of their albums—they were the only ones he made sure to keep together, in a close approximation of chronological order—and fanned them out on the table in front of him. Crowley had been a fan since the first time he’d heard “Keep Yourself Alive” in 1973, and he’d always liked that charming fellow with the large teeth and the outrageous fashion sense. Voice of an angel, too. Crowley would know.

What he needed now was a good rock anthem that he could play louder than his thoughts. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley summoned a record player. He’d probably gotten rid of his old one a long time ago, or if he hadn’t, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it. After a bit of consideration, Crowley picked up _News of the World_ and set it spinning. “We Will Rock You” blazed through Crowley’s impressive sound system, even though the record player was not technically hooked up. Crowley stood there a moment, leaning over the table, letting the repetitive beat roll through him. _Buddy, you’re a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday…_

The lyrics had always made Crowley think of what the gang had been like before the Fall. Usually it made him uncomfortable, but right now that was what he needed. That had been before Aziraphale, and he had managed just fine.

…Cast down into the dark, damp, claustrophobic pits of hell, just sort of blinking around as everyone else moaned with fury and despair—_All I did was ask questions—_reveling with the other demons in a futile attempt to find lasting joy, watching hell slowly turn into a darker and dingier version of heaven’s bureacracy, and then one day, _Crawly, why don’t you head up to this new place God’s set up and see if you can stir up some trouble?_

_Somebody better put you back into your place, singin’ we will, we will, rock you._

He sighed, tossed his sunglasses against a wall, and rubbed his eyes. Well, there had been times without Aziraphale, too. Sometimes whole centuries. He had survived. And this time, he’d have the entire universe to entertain himself. When he got tired of stargazing, he could spice things up with a bit of music. Nevermind that sound couldn’t travel through the vacuum of space, he would break whatever laws of physics he needed to bring Freddie Mercury’s vocal stylings along with him.

The lyric section of “We Will Rock You” gave way to Brian May’s blistering guitar solo. Crowley shuffled through the albums some more, wishing he’d bought the single for “Don’t Stop Me Now.” That would have been perfect for zipping through the stars without a care in the world. _I’m a shooting star, leaping through the sky like a tiger…_But Crowley preferred to buy whole albums, and he’d been a bit underwhelmed by the rest of _Jazz._ He remembered good things about _A Day at the Races,_ but when he picked it up to look at the tracklist, “Somebody to Love” jumped out at him—_ I get down on my knees and I start to pray, till the tears run down from my eyes, ooh, somebody, somebody—_He tossed it into the corner with the Velvet Underground. Not for this. Not for an infinite void of stars, and nobody to share it with.

“We Will Rock You” cut off abruptly, and the slow, mellow opening of “We Are the Champions” took its place. Parts of that one also reminded Crowley a bit of the Fall. _I’ve paid my dues, time after time, I’ve served my sentence, but committed no crime…_Well, no crime Crowley could understand, anyway. Would it have been so hard for them to just answer him?

Crowley picked up _The Miracle _and looked it over thoughtfully. He’d bought it partially out of irony because of the name, and partially because he’d heard “I Want it All” on the radio and simply had to have it for his collection. _It ain’t much I’m asking, I heard him say, gotta find me a future, move outta my way._ That was Crowley’s kind of song.

The music swelled as it moved into the chorus. _I’ve had my share of sand kicked in my face, but I’ve come through, and I need to go on, and on, and on, and on…_

He flipped over the album. Oh, “Breakthru” was on this one, too. Hadn’t heard that one in a while. They had made that brilliant music video with the train crashing through a wall. _If I could only reach you, if I could make you smile, if I could only reach you—_

—Well, Crowley had tried to reach him, hadn’t he? Had tried more than he probably should have, twice just today, and he could see in the angel’s eyes that he’d been so close, so close—

He hurled _The Miracle_ into the corner with the others so hard he heard one of them crack. It shouldn’t be this hard to find an album that didn’t twist his insides into knots. He searched through them with more urgency than before.

_But it’s been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise, I consider it a challenge before the whole human race, and I ain’t gonna lose…_

Ah, there it was! Crowley pulled _A Night at the Opera_ out from underneath _Queen II_ and _Sheer Heart Attack._ Now that brought back some good memories. A handful of nights sitting around with the four of them at unnatural hours, before their explosive fame and hell’s impatience made them all too busy. Glasses and bottles clinking as they struggled to fit them all on one small table, thanks to Crowley’s uncanny knack for discovering more alcohol after they had drunk what should have been the last drop. Like Crowley, Freddie never sat in a chair the right way, just sort of threw himself down and folded his legs up on whatever happened to be nearest—the table, the arm of the chair, his own knee, someone else’s. He’d sit with a glass perched in his fingertips and talk excitedly about whatever he happened to be working on, or, once he’d drank enough, set down what seemed to Crowley’s inebriated mind to be incontrovertible truths about life and love. It was a pity he’d gone so soon. He was one of the few humans whose passing Crowley had mourned. Once, afterward, Crowley had bumped into him downstairs. If he’d noticed that Crowley’s eyes were golden and slitted and entirely inhuman, he hadn’t mentioned it. _Anthony, dear, it’s been too long! I was starting to worry you’d turned your life around and gone to the other place instead._

_Ah, you know me better than that. How are you faring down here?_

_Well enough, darling. It helps to have lived without regrets. And you?_

Until today, Crowley’s greatest regret had been missing that legendary show at Wembley Stadium in 1985. Falling probably ought to be on the list somewhere, too, but the past six thousand years had made up for it. Until today.

“We are the Champions” faded away, and the shrill, relentless opening of “Sheer Heart Attack” thankfully interrupted his thoughts. Queen had always loved dipping their toes into other genres, but in Crowley’s opinion they could have skipped punk rock. It wasn’t that he had anything against machine-gun backbeats and teenage angst—quite the opposite, in fact—but they could do so much more with their level of talent.

For instance, _A Night at the Opera_. Crowley ran one hand fondly over the faded cover, the crest with the giant “Q” surrounded by colorful animals and rays of light. When he’d heard Freddie rambling on about operatic sections and 16th century Italian astronomers, Crowley’d thought he was even madder than Berlioz, but of course they had had pulled it all off with a flair that only Queen could manage. After three weeks of recording—Crowley still couldn’t wrap his head around that, _three weeks_ of just recording one song—“Bohemian Rhapsody” had turned out a masterpiece.

Not to mention the beautifully eclectic blend of styles that made up the rest of the album. “I’m in Love with my Car” was a particular favorite of Crowley’s. He and Roger had been on the same page about that one, even if the others didn’t quite get it. He’d been pleasantly surprised when he saw it on the B side of the “Bohemian Rhapsody” single, and then laughed himself into stitches when he heard how Roger had locked himself in a closet and refused to come out until the others agreed to put it there. Sure, Crowley might have encouraged him, but he never thought Roger would actually go that far. He ought to have known better. Going too far was Queen’s whole thing.

Then there was “The Prophet’s Song,” which seemed fitting for the current circumstances. _O-oh, people of the Earth, listen to the warning, the seer he said…The Earth will shake, in two will break…_ Brian May had had a real stroke of genius with the middle section, that canon that Freddie sang with himself on a delay. Where did these ideas come from? If Crowley had an hour to argue for the survival of Earth, he would spend the first forty-three minutes playing _A Night at the Opera_ in its entirety and the last seventeen playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” three more times. Not that it would do any good. Surely God, in all her omniscience, had already heard Queen’s entire collected discography, and was somehow still on board with destroying it. _Death all around, around, around, around, around…_

He glanced over the track listing. So many good songs here. “Death on Two Legs,” and “‘39,” and…well, “You’re My Best Friend” was on there, too…_Ooh, you make me live, oh, you’re the best friend that I ever had, I’ve been with you such a long time…_Crowley swallowed. He could always just skip that one. He could put up with one painful song for the sake of the rest of the album. He also had “Seaside Rendezvous,” and—

Crowley stopped, staring at one of the titles. Another memory rose to the surface, another one of those late nights with the band. _What’s this I hear about a new song, Freddie? Come on, play us a bit._

_Oh, I don’t know. It’s not finished yet._

_That didn’t stop you after you’d thought up the first four measures of that “Just killed a man” song._

_Come on, Fred, play the man some music._

_Well, I’m afraid you won’t like it much, darling. It’s not really your style._

_I can decide that for myself, if you’ll let me hear it._

_Oh, if you insist._

Then Freddie had stumbled over to the piano and started to play something slow and delicate, and Crowley had sat very, very still in his chair and stared at the spots of light refracted through the glass bottles as Freddie sang, _Love of my life, you’ve hurt me, you’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me…_

The vinyl shattered under Crowley’s hand. He knew with a sudden, gut-wrenching, train-through-a-brick-wall certainty that he was not going to Alpha Centuri. As long as Aziraphale was on this planet, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Sheer Heart Attack” was just finishing up, the distorted vocals cutting through the neverending hammer of the backbeat. _Do you know, do you know, do you know just how I feel? Do you know, do you know, do you know, do—_Crowley snapped his fingers. The record player disappeared, and _News of the World _clattered down onto the table. A curtain of silence filled the empty space.

Crowley’s hands had finally stopped shaking. Everything was suddenly, terribly, terribly clear, at least for the next few hours. And whatever came after that…well, Crowley could figure that out then, assuming he managed to survive that long.

Crowley hurried back to the safe. Right now there was only one thing he could do. _Keep yourself alive, come on, keep yourself alive,_ Freddie sang in his head.

The doorbell buzzed as Crowley was unscrewing the lid of the thermos, and Hastur called through the door in a singsong voice, “Crow-leyyyy…”

What were they doing, politely ringing the doorbell? Hastur must really want to drag this out. Probably had some nasty torture in store as well, before they inevitably extinguished him with holy water. Carefully, carefully, his hands sheathed in rubber gloves, Crowley emptied the thermos into the bucket and tried not to think of Aziraphale. He failed.

_Should I say thank you?_

_Better not._

Down the hallway, the door to his flat banged open. Crowley cracked the door to the living room, stretched up, and balanced the bucket on top. With a wave of his hand, he miracled away the mess with the records. Hastur and Ligur were already stalking down the hall. “Crowww-leyyy,” Hastur called again.

“We only want a little word with you,” added Ligur.

_I can’t have you risking your life, Crowley. Not even for something dangerous._

It was several centuries too late for that. What would the angel say if he could see Crowley now, preparing to murder a fellow demon and earn even more of hell’s ire? He’d have a fit. Or, maybe he wouldn’t.

_It’s over._

Crowley ducked into what he thought of as his plant room and grabbed the plant mister. His plan B. He hoped he wouldn’t need a plan C. Or, more realistically, he hoped one would come to him in the moment when he inevitably did.

“We know you’re in there,” said Hastur, still in that patronizing singsong voice.

“Crowwww-leyyyy…”

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me…_

Well, he was as ready as he would ever be. Setting the plant mister on the table, he threw himself down in the chair. “In here, people,” he called, in the flat voice of someone who had nothing left to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> (If you are in need of a fluffier Queen-related fic after all that angst, might I suggest [this one?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701545))


End file.
